Part One

Part One

I stopped the car at last and let the fog close in around me,
enveloping me in its thick, undulating billows of grey. It was
strangely comforting, like being swathed in a warm woollen
blanket. It softened the edges of the outside world, dulled each
sound to a murmur and, despite the isolation and the darkness, it
made this seem like a safe place.

Nevertheless, it had caused me to lose my way. I had decided
to take a different route this evening, skirting the common in
order to avoid the traffic and shave a few minutes off my
seemingly interminable journey home. Christ, this job in the city
was dragging me down - I seemed to have surrendered whole chunks
of my life to a parade of pointless paperwork. As each day went
by I felt that I was sinking ever deeper into a morass of
mediocrity. But it was the travelling that really got me down,
grid locked in traffic for hour after hour, fumes building, horns
blaring and tempers becoming increasingly fragile. It just made
me all the more desperate to put my foot down and go; to drive
and keep driving until I had left my old life behind and was far,
far away. And so I had attempted this ‘short cut’ in
order to claw back a few moments of my life. Some hope.

Sadly the weather had conspired against me. The mists had
become thicker and thicker, blinding me. I had slowed my pace to
a crawl so that I might pick out my way, but at some point I must
have taken a wrong turn, and now I was hopelessly lost. I sighed
and stared out into the gloomy night, desperately searching for
some feature or landmark that I might recognise. I saw nothing
but nebulous banks of fog as they floated out across the common,
mixing and merging into weird, twisted patterns, then just
melting away to reform into different shapes a moment later.

My breath had begun to steam up the windscreen. To amuse
myself I idly wrote my name in the condensation, staring vacantly
at the letters until they began to mist over. I sat for a moment
in the pitch silence, listening to the rattling of the fog on the
window and taking in the colourful smell of the radiant
moonlight. Then, curiously, I heard the sound of running feet
approaching along the road ahead.

Was it real?

What kind of maniac would be out here on a night like this -
apart from me, that is? I shook my head, hoping that this would
dislodge the hallucination from my tired mind, but the sound was
still there. Tap, tap, tappy tap on the damp tarmac. And it was
getting closer. I leaned forward, wiping the windscreen clean as
I tried to penetrate the fog.

Suddenly a woman appeared in the beam of my headlamps. The
shock of her abrupt arrival caused me to throw myself backwards
in my seat. She seemed equally surprised to come upon me and
failed to check her headlong flight. There was a thud and the car
rocked as she slammed into the front of the vehicle. I sat in
stunned amazement as she rolled around on the bonnet, clutching
her knee and moaning pathetically. Then she dropped back onto the
road, out of sight, but still groaning to herself. Coming to my
senses at last, I quickly jumped out of the car and went around
to the front to examine the paintwork.

“Cathy, Cathy,” I heard the woman moan behind me
as I crouched at the roadside.

“I’m not Cathy, you stupid bitch!” I said
angrily, frowning at my shattered headlamps. “The
name’s Dickson - Geoff Dickson. Remember that name,
you’ll need it when you come to write out the cheque,
because I’m going to make damn sure you pay for the damage
you’ve done to my car.”

A cursory inspection had revealed the damage to be minimal,
but this did nothing to curb my indignation. In fact, the
woman’s callous disregard for the trouble she had caused
only served to increase my irritation. That, and her subsequent
attempts to involve me in her own misfortunes.

“No, Cathy’s over there in the road,” she
rattled on. She reached out and grabbed hold of my leg. “We
had an accident. She’s badly hurt.”

I’m not an uncharitable person, but by now she was
beginning to get my back up. I could sense we were not going to
be the best of friends, and the way she was quite deliberately
bleeding over my turn-ups only served to make the situation more
fraught.

I tried to shake her loose, but she only clung on tighter.
“You’ve got to help her,” she pleaded, her face
a mess of tears and gravel. “She could be bleeding to
death!”

“Well, that’s as maybe,” I responded,
unmoved by her tale of woe. “It’s got nothing to do
with me, now has it? Quite frankly, it’s not my
problem.”

“B-but,” she stammered in what I took to be an
incredulous voice, “you must help us.”

I folded my arms nonchalantly. “Oh, must I?” I
replied. “Explain the logic behind that, why don’t
you? Just because some demented woman takes a flying leap at my
headlights, I’m automatically obliged to help, is that
it?”

“But, but...”

“But nothing,” I continued, riding roughshod over
her objections. “Where would I be if every time some soppy
tart threw herself at my car, I just dropped everything and leapt
to her assistance? Who do you think I am - Batman?”

“But, we’ve had an accident,” the mad woman
croaked, raising herself just enough to point along the road.

“So you keep harping on about,” I responded.
“Quite frankly, I’m sick of hearing about it, you
daft cow. You’ve got no right trying to drag other people
into your mess.”

“But she’s horribly injured,” she
persisted.

I rolled my eyes skyward and sighed. “Oh, you just
don’t get it, do you?” I said. “I don’t
care. I don’t give a damn. Now will you please let go of my
leg, you’re wasting your time. There is nothing that you
can possibly say that will make me want to help your
friend.”

“I have money,” she said.

“Where is she?” I replied.

The woman informed me that her name was Janet. I told her that
I wasn’t the slightest bit interested, but it didn’t
stop her explaining the circumstances of her accident. She told
me that she worked with Cathy at the local meat rendering plant
and had been giving her a lift home in her combination motorbike
and sidecar, when the road had disappeared and a tree had leapt
out in front of them. It was at this point that her voice began
to falter. Clearly she was becoming quite upset, and so I walked
several paces in front of her to avoid embarrassment.

Eventually we reached the scene of the accident. A mangled and
twisted mess of steel lay at the foot of an ancient oak, which
had a sidecar in its uppermost branches and a surprised
expression on its trunk. But there was no sign of Cathy.

“There’s no sign of Cathy,” I pointed out
unnecessarily. “Is this a wind up?”

“No, of course not,” she replied defensively, a
resolute expression on her upturned face. For a brief moment the
moonlight glistened enchantingly in her glass eye. “She was
right here.”

Janet pointed to a spot on the ground, then frowned as she
reconsidered. “Well actually, she was more sort of that
direction, with her feet bent up over there and her arm twisted
around there.”

She was gesticulating wildly, so I hit her. I don’t know
if it helped calm her down, but it certainly did me a power of
good. “How badly was she hurt?” I asked once
she’d stopped gibbering.

“She had a graze on her knee and a button had come off
her blouse,” Janet replied.

“That bad, eh?” I mused. I rubbed my chin slowly
as I contemplated the situation. The mists seemed to close about
me. I felt icy cold, but it wasn’t just the chill night air
that made me shiver. Suddenly the silence was disturbed by a
faint but razor-sharp crack, like that made by a brittle twig
being broken underfoot.

“What’s that?” I hissed, startled.

Janet hazarded a guess. “It sounds like a faint but
razor sharp crack,” she whispered.

“That’s what I was thinking,” I
breathed.

“It’s almost like the noise made by a brittle twig
being broken underfoot,” she added.

She could well have been right, although I didn’t like
to admit it. I muttered something uncomplimentary beneath my
breath, then called out, “Who is it? Who’s
there?”

By now my trepidation was rapidly giving way to irritation.
“Who are you?” I demanded of the phantom twig
snapper, but the only reply I got was the wind whistling through
the trees and the disgruntled chatter of a nearby squirrel
complaining that someone had trodden on its nuts.

Janet suddenly caught her breath. “Perhaps it’s
Cathy’s father?” she said hopefully. “I think
he’s a pharmacist or something. Maybe he’s come out
to look for us?” But she didn’t sound too sure of
herself. I could feel her trembling with fear as she drew closer
to me, so I pushed her away.

“Or then again,” she continued, “it might be
some foul and demonic creature of the night, lusting to feast on
our warm blood.”

I looked at her askance, but she was obviously on a roll. Her
hand went to her mouth and when next she spoke it was in a
hoarse, melodramatic whisper.

“Or could it be,” she hissed, “a mad,
axe-wielding mentalist with a fetish for jelly?”

I stared at her for a moment or two, trying to think of a
suitable put-down, but words failed me. “Nutter,” I
managed to mumble at last. Just then a noise behind me made me
turn. At first I could see nothing beyond the impenetrable wall
of fog, but then I perceived a tiny point of light in the gloom.
It seemed to be approaching. Eventually I was able to discern a
figure coming towards us. He was a squat man in his late fifties,
with a thick, black, pudding-bowl haircut, which rippled like a
cornfield in response to the slightest breeze. He was wearing a
long white lab coat - which is to say that he was wearing a lab
coat that had once been white but which was now a patchwork of
charred fabric and multi-coloured stains. He was holding a
burning match to light his way, but it was pretty much redundant
since some of the patches on his coat glowed with an eerie
brightness of their own and gave off considerably more
illumination.

The strange man stopped several feet in front of me,
motionless. His chin was thrust upwards and he looked down the
length of his nose at me with a touch of haughty disdain, a
superior twinkle in his eyes.

“I think I’ve just trodden in something,” he
said, and the match burnt down and scalded his fingers.
“Bugger it!” he cried, dropped the match and started
to jump up and down, rubbing his hand.

As I watched him prancing about, any feelings of awe I might
have had towards him rapidly dispersed. “Are you
Cathy’s father, the pharmacist?” I asked.

“Pharmacist!” he cried indignantly, momentarily
distracted from his pain. “I’ll have you know that I
am Professor Samuel Mendes!” he exclaimed.

“Professor Samuel Mendes!” I exclaimed right back
at him.

“Ah ha!” he continued exclaiming. “I thought
you’d be impressed!”

“Impressed!” I repeated, exclaiming out of habit
now, rather than anything else. “Never heard of
you.”

“Pah!” he spat at me. And such was his contempt
that he did quite literally spit at me. “You young dolt!
You’ve never heard of the world famous inventor of the
wind-powered torch? Or the everlasting kebab? Surely you’ve
heard of my patented disposable chocolate?”

“Disposable chocolate?” I asked.

“That’s right,” he explained. “Tastes
like shit. Only thing it’s good for is being thrown
away.”

I shook my head. “Sorry Prof,” I said.
“It’s a new one on me.”

“Me too,” said Janet.

The Professor shrugged. “Well the marketing’s been
a problem,” he said philosophically. Then his manner
changed abruptly and he eyed us both suspiciously. “The
question is, what are you two young people doing all the way out
here on a night like this. Up to no good, I’ll
warrant.”

He started to circle me slowly, never shifting his piercing
gaze from me. I felt myself wilt slightly, but stood my ground.
“We could ask the same of you,” I replied.

“I’m looking for something,” he snapped in
reply, and there was something in his voice that made that simple
statement sound like a challenge.

“Cathy’s key, she wore it around her neck,”
he explained. He came to a halt in front of me and brought his
face close to mine. The smell of cheese and onion was almost
unbearable. “You haven’t seen it at all, have
you?”

The question was left lingering in the air like an accusation.
One that I was compelled to refute. “I have no idea what
you’re talking about,” I said.

“Are you sure?” asked Professor Mendes. “You
can’t miss it - it’s about four foot long and made of
solid lead.”

He tilted his head to one side, his eyes searching for the
faintest flicker of deception in my expression. But before I
could answer, Janet interceded. “Is this it,
Professor?” she said, pointing at something on the
ground.

The Professor snorted and gave the object a cursory glance.
“No, that’s the rear bumper from a 1962 Morris
Oxford,” he said. He kicked the bumper aside and spied the
key underneath. “Now this is more like it!” he
exclaimed delightedly. He bent down to recover it, but before he
could pick it up I leapt over and stomped on it.

“Owww, my bloody fingers!” the Professor cried,
snatching back his hand. He glared at me reproachfully.
“What do you think you’re playing at, stamping on
people’s hands like that? You’re a bloody
madman!”

“I’m sorry,” I said firmly, “but I
can’t let you have that key. How do we know that you really
are Cathy’s father?”

“What are you talking about, you freakin’
lunatic?” the Professor snapped, sucking his bruised
fingers.

“Well look at it this way - some poor girl’s gone
missing and you just happen to be wandering round on the
common,” I argued. “How do we know that you’re
not some kind of deviant?”

“I am,” the Professor freely admitted. “But
I’m also Cathy’s father, and I want that
key!”

With that, he launched himself at me, shoulder barging me to
the ground. For such a small man he was surprisingly strong. In
fact, the smell of him alone was enough to overpower me. However,
I was not about to let this malodorous maniac get the better of
me. As the Professor tried once more to recover the key, I
scrambled to my feet and made a dive for him. Before he knew it I
was on his back, my hands clasped tightly over his eyes.

“Get off me!” he spluttered.

“Say you submit,” I demanded, tightening my
grip.

“Oww, you’re hurting me!” the Professor
exclaimed. He spun around, trying to shake me loose, but there
was no shifting me.

“Submit!” I insisted.

“Stop buggering about!” Professor Mendes
responded. “Let go of me this instant, you fucking lunatic!
What kind of madman goes around attacking harmless men of science
in the middle of the night?”

With that, this ‘harmless man of science’ managed
to sink his teeth into my right hand. I let go and jumped back.
He wheeled around to face me, an evil gleam in his eye as he
flashed me a broad, toothless grin. I looked down to see his
teeth still embedded in my hand. I shrieked in horror and shook
my hand violently. The teeth flew off into the darkness, where
they could be heard scurrying about the undergrowth, harassing
the local wildlife.

Okay, so now the gloves were off.

“I’m sorry Professor,” I said firmly,
“but there is no way that you are going to get that
key.” My jaw was set in an attitude of grim determination.
I narrowed my eyes and fixed him with a cold, dark stare as I
slowly advanced towards him. The Professor stood his ground, but
I felt that by now I had the measure of him. “Now, are you
going to tell us where Cathy is?”

I had got to within three feet of him when the Professor
suddenly pulled a cricket bat from inside his coat and knocked me
to the ground. Leaving me lying in a dazed stupor, he deftly
snatched up the key and ran off into the woods.

I was impressed. Someone who could lay their hands on
dangerous sports equipment at a moment’s notice was
obviously a force to be reckoned with. Nevertheless, I was more
than a match for him, and I was determined he would not get away.
Wasting no time, I changed into my tracksuit and running shoes
and set off after him.

The ground was treacherous underfoot, and the darkness turned
even the smallest obstacle into a potential death trap. Vaguely I
was aware of Janet running behind me, shouting something about
pork luncheon meat, but my attention was firmly fixed on the
Professor as he stealthily hobbled from tree to tree. He seemed
to know exactly where he was heading and eventually the hazy
yellow glow of a solitary farmhouse appeared from the gloom.
Spurred on by the lights, the Professor quickened his pace and I
soon had serious problems keeping up with him. I just managed to
keep him in sight as he deftly vaulted the rickety wooden fence
at the back of the house. Moments later I reached the fence
myself but negotiated it with embarrassingly less aplomb,
becoming ensnared by the rusted knots of barbed wire that held it
together. By the time I had extricated myself, the Professor was
gone.

I paused a moment to catch my breath. I may have lost track of
Professor Mendes, but there was only really one place he could
have gone. I strode purposefully up the tangled and overgrown
lawn towards the rear of the house. Suddenly I heard a door slam
behind me, and I turned. There, at the bottom of the garden stood
a small brick building, a monument to the efficiency of early
twentieth century waste disposal. Or, in other words, an outside
toilet. So, the crafty little bleeder thought he could hide out
from me in there, did he?

I strode up to the door and rapped on it sharply with my
knuckle. “Come on, come on!” I barked. “Are you
going to be much longer in there?”

“Okay, if that’s the way you want to play
it,” I said. I took a few steps back then hurled myself at
the door with all my weight. It was less sturdy than I had
imagined and, with an explosion of splintering wood, I careered
headlong into the toilet. After that things got a little
confusing. I remember seeing a young girl standing in front of
me, a look of horror on her face. And I recall seeing strange
pipes, and levers, and tubes, and valves - certainly not the kind
of thing you usually find in an outside toilet. Then there was a
sharp crack on the back of my head, my legs turned to jelly, the
floor came up to meet me and all I saw after that were stars.